


Glitch in the System: Secret

by SystemGlitch



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Cereal, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-23 22:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11999205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SystemGlitch/pseuds/SystemGlitch
Summary: A three-part arc exploring the emotional consequences of Widowmaker's reconditioning.Part 1: A Secret Worth Sharing, by E.Part 2: Cold, by K.Part 3: Slumber Party, by E.





	1. A Secret Worth Sharing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1: A Secret Worth Sharing, by E.  
> Sombra angsts over Widowmaker's personnel files.   
> A conscience happens.

When Sombra woke up, she woke up angry. Two weeks ago Akande had sent Widowmaker off on some sort of mission and then vanished himself, leaving her and Gabriel to butt heads in their absence. She’d been good about avoiding him, but run-ins happened regardless, and she was quickly running out of sarcasm and clever comebacks to his biting commentary criticising everything she did. Usually she had Widowmaker to act as a reluctant mediary, if only to dilute the situation with her own unintentionally dry humor.

For the most part, though, she was mad because it took her a solid half day to miss the spider’s presence.

After a furtive trip to the kitchen for breakfast, her boredom drove her to idly review her files, from Gabriel’s to Akande’s, to various members of Overwatch to her own poorly-supplemented data. Through it all, she kept avoiding a review of the sniper’s. She’d read it enough by now that she could practically recite it verbatim, anyway, and no additional overview would shed brighter light onto her unfortunate situation.

Despite this, she hadn’t shared it with Widowmaker. Not a word - not so much as a subtle dog-whistle while they were out in Venice, which was her very favorite form of talking around people: overtly stating something they knew related to them, but not necessarily how. There was a power in knowing secrets about others, and even more in letting them  _know_  you knew.

Not for Amélie Lacroix. For some reason, she couldn’t bring herself to mock the assassin for the life she’d had ripped from her along with the ability to mourn its loss. She’d found no real pleasure in holding her past over her head, and she’d certainly  _tried_. It just didn’t seem worth it when the only response she ever got was a deadpan lack of any shits to give, if she received any recognition at all. Talon’s personality wipe might not have been perfect, but it was comprehensive enough to turn Widowmaker into the perfect killer they’d needed.

Now they had her, and after many long, frustrating nights of contemplation, Sombra was tired of that being the case. Truth be told, the more she learned about Talon, the less she liked them, but their reckless disregard for the law and order of the world was just too easy for her to exploit. She’d help them persist - for now. She was too close to something else - something  _much_  larger than Talon, Vishkar, or even Overwatch - to leave now.

But the details of Widowmaker’s reconditioning weighed on her mind like a heavy shroud. She didn’t know why. It wasn’t like her to care.

She parsed through her own thoughts, assessing the variable, and assuring herself that she was not, in fact, giving up. This was not a case in which she’d determined that the goal was too far to reach. Hell - she’d been chipping away at Helix’s firewall for  _years_  and hadn’t once considered giving up.

This was something else entirely. It wasn’t that she couldn’t continue prodding, needling, and extracting emotions from the cold spider’s broken mind. At first she had viewed the curious case of Amélie Lacroix as the greatest challenge of her career; a nanocognitive network of fascination blending her love of social engineering and physical technological hacking into one single, sad organism. And she was so close all the time, it would have been an impossibly tempting project to ignore.

So no - it was not that she couldn’t break the Talon operative down to her composite, precious parts. It was just that, over the past few weeks or so, she realized she simply didn’t  _want_  to.

Flopping irritably on her bed, she generated the holographic display she preferred to use for her more sensitive work, networked directly through her cybernetics, making any activity therefore untraceable. In general, she used it for complex Talon hacking operations, or complex anti-Talon hacking operations.

Today she used it to chat up an old friend.

 _Hey_ , she typed, fingers flying across the hard light keyboard as she looked up at it from her prone position.  _What’s up?_

 _Hey! Not much, holding down the fort while Arenas is out. Did you hear Doomfist escaped from jail?_ came the answer, typed cumbersomely over a physical keyboard. She could tell from the click rate.

 _No way, that’s wild,_  she replied, smiling at the casual ignorance of her companion on the other side of the world. Los Muertos may have bought her skills, but they’d earned her respect, and she’d parted ways with more than a few friends she liked to catch up with from time to time.  _Can I ask you something?_

_Always._

She thought hard on what to say, her brain picking and tossing words in rapid succession before she decided on a sentence to type.  _I have a friend. She’s in some shit, and she knows it, but not sure if she knows the extent to which she’s being manipulated. I don’t know whether ignorance is bliss or a burden in this case._

 _And I assume you have all the answers, yes?_  her friend replied.

_In six backup drives and a manila folder, obviously._

_Comprehensive. Can’t tell whether this is a problem with a job or a girlfriend, destellita._

_Ugh, I hate that nickname._  She paused, fingers hovering in mid air.  _It’s complicated._

_With you? Never._

She rolled her eyes, feeling the sarcasm behind the text as poignantly as if it were spoken out loud.

Before she could retort, she could see that her friend was typing, and waited for a response.  _Show it to her. It’s not yours to keep, and you’re not doing her any favors by protecting her from her own past if it’s actively coloring her present. You should know this very well, little spark._

_I guess you’re right._

_I’m always right._

Sombra smirked, but didn’t contest the statement.  _All right, I’ve got to run, viejo._

_With age comes wisdom. Stay safe, Sombra._

_You too,_ she replied, smiling as she swiped a hand across the hologram, vanishing it from her sight. It was a short lived smile, however. She hopped from the bed to grab Widowmaker’s file and tucked it under her arm.

Exhaling to steel her nerves, she marched out of her room, down the hall, and into Widowmaker’s. She had her own copy - she had  _seven_ of her own copies - but her friend was right: it was not a secret that was hers to keep. She’d seen the way in which Talon had neutered Widowmaker’s ability to feel anything more the vaguest emotions, and at first she’d found it fascinating; amusing even, if you viewed Widowmaker as a pawn in a game you were invested in winning. But Sombra had never viewed Talon’s game as her own, and despite her association, didn’t much care whether they succeeded or failed so long as she got what she needed in the process.

As for Widowmaker? She realized she’d stopped viewing her as a test subject a long time ago. It had just taken her until now to understand her complicity in the matter.

Now it just made her angry.

And very, very sad.

Placing the dossier on the sniper’s desk, she started to arrange it before realizing that there was no way to pleasantly display something as raw and vile as what was contained therein. Instead she simply left a note and placed it on top.

_Araña. You’re not going to like this. I’m sorry. - S_


	2. Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2: Cold, by K.  
> Widowmaker angsts over her own personnel files.  
> A snug happens.

The mission - if she could call it that - went well.

Widowmaker took her time traversing the network of halls which comprised the Venetian estate, reacquainting herself with gilded wallpaper and sun-bleached paintings as she recounted with transient curiosity the vaguery of the assignment. Akande had presented a handful of targets residing temporarily in and just beyond the city, requesting she keep tabs on them. She scoffed at first; it seemed too easy, like a job suited to a lesser operative - one with a less specialized, less lethal skillset. Doomfist claimed the contrary - that a common agent couldn’t guarantee the degree of secrecy and tactical precision required of the job.

She accepted - as if there were a choice - and spent the ensuing two weeks amongst the rooftops of Venice, navigating shadows with ease and reporting to her superior all the minutiae of their days. Among the targets she recognized one: the omnic Maximilian, a member of Talon’s governing council. From this, she drew her own conclusion: this was, at least in part, internal surveillance - hence Akande’s emphatic request for delicacy.

It was certainly a curious endeavor, but Widowmaker was not particularly inclined toward speculation. She did her job and did it well; nothing else mattered.

As she slid through the unlocked door to her suite and tossed her rucksack aside, the sniper noticed immediately that something was off - a small detail, like a crooked painting or the absence of dust where its accumulation should be. Widowmaker cast a long, slow glance over the room, scrutinizing its contents in search of the offending  _something_. At first glance, everything seemed as she left it: the meticulously turned-down bed, the stack of books at the edge of a polished coffee table reflecting the mid afternoon sun, the otherwise spartan desk supporting a computer and a single-serve self-heating teapot settled carefully in its cradle.

_Ah._

There, between the computer and teapot, was the intrusive thing: a standard manila folder, plain but for a small note taped to it, thrown haphazardly on the desk.

She didn’t need to look at the note to know who it was from; only one person in all of Talon possessed the gall to barge into her room both uninvited and unannounced. Still, the slender woman crossed the room, tossing her coat onto the bed as she passed. Resting on her hands, Widowmaker leaned over the desk and pursed her lips as she read the note fastened to the folder:

_Araña. You’re not going to like this. I’m sorry._ _-S_

* * *

Hours passed, unnoticed and unheeded save for the seconds required for Widowmaker, belatedly acknowledging the onset of nighttime hours after its arrival, to turn on her bedside lamp. The warm glow illuminated her bedside, its surface strewn with the contents of the dossier Sombra left her, the means of delivery markedly unceremonious given its contents. Written reports, photographs, electrocardiograph printouts, CAT scans and MRI results - these scraps comprised a tapestry woven from nearly a decade’s materials, its individual parts, held at a distance, forming a narrative of the thing she now glimpsed in the mirror, from conception through construction.

There had always been missing pieces; the invasiveness and sheer extent of the work required to transform Amélie Lacroix into Widowmaker necessitated them. From the construction of neural frameworks to the implementation of cognitive checks and balances to the manipulation of the circulatory system to slow the heart - it all comprised a minefield of missing time that she now realized was concurrent with her dwindling ability to connect with the world revolving around her. Talon used these gaps as cover for their attempts at emotional suppression and psychological reprogramming, leveraging blissful unconsciousness as a failsafe in the creation of their perfect living weapon. What she had always attributed to mourning, to the graduating emptiness born of loss and its slow decay into numbness, she now realized was the new normal by which Talon programmed her to function.

Her memories, however - her kidnapping, the two weeks of of electroshock torture and stimulus/response experiments, Gérard - they remained, unadulterated and ineffaceable. Now, staring down the barrel of the truth, she wished they’d taken those from her, too.

She remembered, and with perfect clarity. She simply wasn’t allowed to care.

* * *

An hour later, she knocked on the oaken door before her after only ten minutes’ hesitation, rapping thin knuckles against its surface in mechanical increments once, twice, three times.

She waited, idly smoothing the hem of her silk robe. Silence.

She knocked again.

A groan arose from the room beyond, followed by footsteps and the metal-against-metal grating of locks in quick succession. Sombra opened the door, tired-eyed and glowering. “What?” she asked, biting back whatever castigation followed as recognition dawned on her features. “You’re back,” she observed lamely, stepping aside to allow the taller woman entrance as she tugged the edge of her over-long tee shirt further over otherwise bare legs. “Come on.”

Widowmaker obeyed, stepping wordlessly inside. Exhaustion filled the hollows where others would demonstrate feeling; it was evident in her gaze, far-away and heavy-lidded, and in the unusual heaviness that clung to her every move as she crossed the room.

“You read it?” Sombra asked as she sat on the edge of her bed, brows canted with a mix of concern and curiosity. The sniper only nodded, inclining her head in a silent affirmation that, like the folder in which it was delivered, seemed ironically underwhelming for a revelation of its magnitude. “That’s some shit, huh?”

Widowmaker didn’t respond. Instead, she leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees as she stared fixedly at some far-off point beyond the walls of the compound. “Some shit” was egregiously reductive, but try as she might, she couldn’t even conjure her usual passive irritation with the other woman. All there was was void, as there had always been - only, now she was aware of it and its innate unnaturalness.

“Some shit,” she parroted at last, her voice barely above a whisper.

Sombra bit her lip and searched clumsily for something - anything to offer her. This was far beyond her area of expertise, and she wagered that all the empathy and understanding in the world wouldn’t allow her any insight into what the assassin was thinking.  

“I’m sorry,” she managed. “Is there anything I can do?”

Widowmaker shook her head.

The shorter woman glanced about the room, searching its darkened corners as if they would, if looked at in just the right way, offer a solution. She knew that this, like any network of backdoors, required finesse and careful navigation; one misstep and it could be the end of everything. Then, she recalled with clarity a younger version of herself: a castaway in Dorado perched at the edge of another’s bed, hand in hand, clinging to the hope the person beside her would be an anchor in a world that didn’t want her - even if only for a time.

Without a word, she slid a hand between the other woman’s interlaced fingers, willing herself to ignore the strange chill of her touch. Widowmaker visibly tensed at the contact, her suspicion almost palpable as she glanced sideways at the hacker.

“You want to crash here?” Sombra asked tentatively, risking the sanctity of their silence in favor of outreach. “Might be good, not being alone.”

Widowmaker scoffed, relinquishing her grip at the suggestion. “Yes, a slumber party will do  _wonders_ , I’m sure,” she replied, rolling her eyes.

Sombra frowned. “Look, I don’t get your shit and I’m not going to pretend I ever could, but I get  _shit_. If you’re going to sit with it, don’t do it alone.”

The sniper narrowed golden eyes, looking for some unspoken subtext beneath her colleague’s insistence: a lie or another line of double-speak Sombra was so fond of employing. Her tiredness returned as she found nothing, resigning herself to the possibility the spy was being sincere. She sighed.

“You gonna’ crash or what?” Sombra asked, looking over the her colleague’s shoulder to the digital clock widget tucked into the corner of her wall-length holographic interface - a strange juxtaposition against the estate’s antiquity. “It’s late and you look like shit.”

“I  _feel_  like shit,” Widowmaker replied.

“So, stay,” the hacker said, crossing the floor to a long, velveteen chaise adjacent the wall display - another clash of Renaissance lushness and streamlined, neon modernity. “I got work to do, but make yourself at home. Sleep. Or whatever it is you do.” She sat lightly, folding her legs beneath herself as a mosaic of windows splashed across the hard light screen before her.

Widowmaker, curling into sheets the coolness of which she couldn’t feel, offered no reply beyond her own acquiescence. As the minutes ticked into an hour, then two, she lay in silence, unbroken but for the occasional sound of footsteps beyond the door and the constant thrum of Toulouse’s purring beneath the bed. Her thoughts blended together in increments, forming an impenetrable, roaring maelstrom whose composite parts she could no longer identify amidst the fray.

What was she supposed to do? What  _could_  she do? Even if she left, even if she ran to the farthest ends of the earth, she would always be Widowmaker, and there was no place in the world that would be safe - not for her and certainly not for anyone else. She was the embodiment of the cautionary loaded gun story; left in the open, to her own devices, there was no telling who’d find themselves accidentally at the wrong end of her innately lethal existence.

At least Talon knew where to point her.

* * *

From time to time, Sombra risked a sideways glance to the bed, noting how strangely small the other woman, usually an imposing presence, appeared. Widowmaker was a predator: a lean, remorseless killing machine, poised and unwavering and as assured as the sunrise; this woman, burrowed in a nest of sheets, was none of those things. She was pitiful, a shade of a human whose personhood the hacker wasn’t certain could ever be fully restored.

Another hour passed, during which Sombra became pointedly aware of the pair of eyes on her - piercing, unflinching gold she could have easily mistaken as unblinking beneath the assassin’s tousled hair.

She stood and cleared the space between the chaise and her bed, approaching with all the measured caution one would a wild cat. Appropriately, Widowmaker followed her movement across the room, the slow drift of her gaze the sole acknowledgement she offered as the other woman approached.

“You need anything?” Sombra asked, nearly setting a hand on her shoulder before reflexively pulling away. The sniper stopped her, catching her wrist in a single, sharp motion.

“Stay,” she muttered, lifting her eyes to meet the hacker’s. “A moment.”

Sombra snorted, dismissing the softness of the gesture to countermand its gravity. “What, you want to snuggle now?” she scoffed.

“ _Oui_.”

“Oh,” the hacker paused, swallowing the laugh that almost slipped past her lips. “Really?”

Widowmaker, equally uncertain, opened and closed her mouth as she attempted to transmute thought to speech. “I would like to not be alone right now,” she said slowly, as unfamiliar with both the words themselves and the sentiment informing them. “Please.”

She gently tightened her grip on Sombra’s wrist, a sad attempt at conveying her own sincerity. There were no words to reinforce the request the way she needed them to, no language to convey how deafening her own mind was becoming and the weight with which it was bearing down upon her. All she had was that one, pitiful word - “please” - and this singular physical gesture.

Sombra clucked her tongue, feigning inconvenience. “All right,” she shrugged, crawling into bed behind the other woman. “But I’m the big spoon,” she insisted, pressing herself flush against the curve of her back before tugging the duvet over both of them.

“This okay?” she asked. Widowmaker’s sole reply was a soft grunt, barely audible as the hacker listened with almost clinical interest to the metronomic beating of the assassin’s heart in her ear.

“Hey,  _araña_?” she asked after a spell.

“ _Quoi_?”

“I’m sorry.”

Widowmaker shifted, indelicately seeking out Sombra’s hand with her own and tugging her closer, draping the hacker’s arm over her waist in the process.

“I know.”


	3. Slumber Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 3: Slumber Party, by E.  
> Sombra has some feelings.  
> Widowmaker gives zero fucks re: Gabriel's judgement.  
> Cereal happens.

When Sombra woke up, she had to pee.

_Bad._

Unfortunately, at some point during the night, her spooning situation with Widowmaker had turned more into a proper cuddle, with the spider’s head resting on her chest and one hand delicately curled around the low scoop of her nightshirt. She breathed with a slow precision even in her sleep, but her expression was lacking the hyperfocus and disinterest that colored her waking hours. Instead she looked calm, composed, and  _relaxed_  in a way she’d never seen the sniper look before. Not while conscious; not while aware of the fluctuating emotional connection she could never quite grasp, like water perpetually slipping through her fingers. She knew she’d never understand how that felt, and despite her body pleading with her to get up, she simply couldn’t bear to interrupt Widowmaker’s brief moment of solace.

_Ah, Dios, what are you getting yourself into, Sombra?_

It had been a long time since she’d shared a bed with anyone. Strangely enough, the life of an international master hacker wasn’t particularly conducive to maintaining healthy companionship. Now fleeting memories pushed their way back into her brain, and the feelings such proximity reminded her of made her blush.

Tentatively lifting her hand to the side of Widowmaker’s face, she brushed a stray piece of hair away from her forehead. The spider opened her eyes, and Sombra watched the slow dawning of the day’s tension and numbness slip back into her face, breaking the brief moment of serenity she’d managed to catch a fleeting glimpse of.

“Sombra,” the spider said, and she expected her to push herself away with the practiced ease she normally exhibited, but Widowmaker stayed where she was - head pressed against the skin of Sombra’s chest, eyes averted, voice a deadpan reminder of her constructed existence as an automaton for hire. It was simultaneously endearing and heart wrenching, and Sombra felt herself warming even as the spider’s skin seemed to cool with every breath she took.

“Morning,” she replied inelegantly, trying not to shift. “Did you sleep all right?”

“I slept…all right,” was the spider’s reply, and Sombra couldn’t quite parse out the meaning behind her hesitation.

“Oh. Good,” she said through the palpable awkwardness beginning to suffuse the room. As an addendum, she added with the least amount of finesse on the planet, “I have to pee.”

“So pee?” Widowmaker replied, less mockingly and more in confusion.

“You’re on me,” Sombra said.

“Oh,” the sniper replied, and Sombra caught a note of embarrassment in her voice as she extricated herself from the sheets entangling her and moved to sit on the side of the bed.

Sombra vanished into the adjoining bathroom across the suite.

She took the opportunity to brush her teeth, and as she was finishing up, she heard a knock on her door. “Ah hell, who’s even up at this hour?” She tossed her toothbrush onto the cluttered counter and stalked out of the room, conscious of the fact that she’d still not put on pants from the night before and hoping whoever was on the other side wouldn’t mind.

Opening the door, she saw Gabriel standing in the hall looking decidedly displeased to be doing so. She kept the door closed enough that he couldn’t see into her room at the potentially compromising scenario she found herself in that morning, the context of which was arguably  _more_  incriminating than the pretense of the situation. She had no idea how the rest of Talon would react to their classified papers being handed back to their human weapon and had no interest in finding out before she’d had her morning coffee.

“Yes?”

“I can’t find Widowmaker. Do you know where she is?” he asked, his gruff voice betraying the distaste he found in having to ask Sombra anything at all.

“No clue, boss. Sorry,” she replied, smiling with a forceful innocence only present in someone desperately hoping the person before them couldn’t read their thoughts.

As she stood there, she felt a presence press up behind her, and the subtle warmth of breath on her neck as Widowmaker made her presence known over her shoulder.

“What do you need, Gabriel?” she asked, and Sombra wasn’t sure if she was making up the added hint of venom that coated the spider’s words.

“Oh, there you are,” he replied, and Sombra had the momentary pleasure of watching his face twist in confusion at a thing he hadn’t predicted nor could be readily explain. “What are you doing here?”

“Slumber party,” Widowmaker replied, shrugging fluidly as though nothing were amiss or suspicious at all.

Gabriel looked between the two women curiously, eyes flicking from one to the other before he apparently decided to leave the details to ignorance. “Great, well, Akande needs to debrief you when you have a moment.” Nodding at Sombra and the sniper, he turned and walked down the hall.

Shutting the door, Sombra looked back at Widowmaker and raised an eyebrow. “Well done,  _araña_ ,” she said sarcastically.

“I should be going,” Widowmaker replied, seeming unconvinced by her own words, the storm of indecision whirling around her a palpable sensation.

“Sure,” Sombra shrugged, stepping away from the door, but the sniper didn’t move towards it just yet.

“What’s wrong?” the hacker asked, leaning against the door frame. She’d given up on her indecency, letting her shirt fall where it may.

“Nothing is wrong,” Widowmaker replied, shifting restlessly on her feet.

“Bullshit, Lacroix. I read people for a living, remember?” Sombra smirked, crossing her arms as she attempted to gain a modicum of control over a situation she wasn’t sure she’d ever had any handle on to begin with. It had been a nice few minutes before Gabe had shown up, at least.

“Well stop,” came Widowmaker’s unexpectedly raw reply, her expression conveying annoyance and, to a small degree, hurt. “Stop trying to figure me out.”

“Sorry,” Sombra relented, uncertain where her fight had run off to all of a sudden. She felt more tired than she had when she’d gone to bed, but still didn’t regret what she’d done, even if it was making their situation  _extremely_  awkward.

“I’m not a project,” Widowmaker continued, eyes averted, voice hard as she looked anywhere but at the woman in front of her. “I’m not a thing for you to unlock.”

“I know,” Sombra replied, trying to convince herself of that as she spoke the words.  _Everything_  was a project to her, to some degree. If that was a character flaw, well, then at least it was a flaw that got results.

Widowmaker might have a point, though. Maybe the best way to approach her situation wasn’t as a code to crack, but a bridge to build. She wasn’t as good at that, but everyone had to start somewhere on the path to excellence, right?

“Look,” she sighed, now realizing where Widowmaker’s reluctance was coming from and electing to address it head on rather than dance around it for the next week. “I didn’t give you that file because of some ulterior motive, or some secret double-agent spy backstabbing bullshit reason. I gave it to you because it was yours to know.” She shrugged, walking across her room to rummage through her drawers and finally locate a pair of pants to pull on over her bare legs. “I have a lot of information that belongs to other people.  _A lot_. It wasn’t something I decided on lightly, but I did, and now it’s yours - no strings attached.” Slipping her pants on one leg at a time, she buttoned them at her hips and smoothed her shirt over the hem. “Believe what you want, but I just couldn’t sit on it anymore.”

“I don’t know what to do now,” was Widowmaker’s surprisingly soft reply.

“Yeah,” Sombra shrugged, admitting her own inexperience in the matter. “Me either.”

They stood for a moment, Widowmaker stock still and unmoving as Sombra idly picked lint off her sleeve. Eventually the silence became overbearing, and Sombra sighed.

“If there’s anything I’ve learned about new problems, it’s that tackling them all at once isn’t always the best idea - especially if they’re complex ones. Sometimes the best thing to do is untangle the most pressing part of the problem and deal with it a day at a time.” She looked up at Widowmaker, surprised to see she was looking at her now instead of avoiding her eyes. “What do you need right now?”

“I’m hungry,” she replied, her voice returned to the deadpan delivery Sombra was used to hearing from her.

“Then let’s get some fuckin’ cereal,  _araña_.” Grinning, she opened her door and followed Widowmaker down the stairs and into the kitchen for breakfast.


End file.
